


Press Junket #4

by Beatriceorme



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatriceorme/pseuds/Beatriceorme





	Press Junket #4

**“Press Junket #4”**  
  
  
5:45 AM  
  
Wake up call too impersonal. Hospital corners still intact. No tang of life in the temperature controlled air. The only sound – the distant swoosh of commerce from fifteen stories below. New York City sped up, racing towards another day.  
  
Or was it Chicago? DC? Atlanta? London, even?  
  
The fancy ‘RC’ embossed gold, from sheet to shampoo to stationary, blabbed only of surface amenities, lending no clue to where this bastion of smug elitism stood, towering above the common. The tastefully appointed room, devoid of any human touch save for an empty beer bottle keeping a butt-crammed ashtray company over on the teakwood coffee table - the main focus of the cozy sitting area - and a pair of socks plopped in the middle of the immaculate Mojave toned carpet - yards away from either suitcase or complimentary laundry bag - could be anywhere, inhabit one of a dozen towns that were listed in chronological order on the blue paper shoved into the forgotten pile on the untouched side of the bed and kept captive by i-Pod and Blackberry. All the same – except for the taste of the water – interchangeable and indistinguishable from the previous.  
  
Didn’t matter, though. Not really, for wherever here was, the facts still remained that only one toothbrush graced the bathroom counter, one robe hung limply behind the door. One breakfast – yogurt and granola with dry toast and decaffeinated coffee served on crisp linen and bone dry china under domes brushed dull by too many dishwasher trips – and only one body would slip between pressed sheets tonight. Again.  
  
The telephone rang, four short bursts piercing the room’s silence, a reminder that media pandering was a necessary evil in the business and that shoved onward without a look back, class, truth and lonely souls be damned.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Too early to call the West coast, regardless of what city this was. Elijah rolled away from his near sleepless night and shuffled to the bathroom.  
  
Day bazillion and three began.  
  
  
7:33 AM  
  
A quick briefing on the publications that would parade through today, a list of names that resembled yesterday’s. The evening’s schedule of meet and greets, photo ops, and the right places to be when and with whom.  
  
Tenth cigarette of the day and still too early to call home.  
  
  
  
9:17 AM  
  
Now, at least, Elijah knew where he was. The Boston Globe had just finished and he stood looking at his bleary face in the ornate mirror of the enormous powder room rubbing sore smile muscles and listening to a familiar cheery voice mail message when all he wanted was the real thing.  
  
  
11:22 AM  
  
Boston Herald, Boston Town Online, WBZ TV4, WHDH, WGBH FM, room service lunch good for only ignoring and a sappy message left with Sean’s sympathetic secretary. Almost 12 hours since their good night argument from hell.  
  
  
1:48 PM  
  
 _What drew you to this particular role? Like filming in PA? Give us a hint of the twist? How did you prepare? Creepy working with Mr. Shyamalan? Prefer costume pics to modern? Your leading lady, how was it working with Maggie? Different than her brother? Your motivations…process… pets at home?_  
  
Inane questions piled up like the empty water bottles crowding the floor and beyond. The couch – perfectly comfortable four hours ago – bit into his hips, rubbing his ass the wrong way, refusing to cooperate when he squirmed against the corduroy while still appearing at ease and interested. The blasting A/C gave up trying to dispel the lingering haze of twenty different colognes, but still butted heads with the Kleig lights positioned just so for the camera. Voice after voice came at Elijah, but never the one he desperately need to hear.  
  
 _Why should people see this movie? What’s next for Elijah Wood? Where do you keep your Golden Globe? Straight love scenes difficult for a gay man?_  
  
  
4:02 PM  
  
Last question of the day. Last smile, last handshake.  
  
But, wait…there’s more!  
  
A feature in EW, on the cover, so it’s on to a cookie cutter studio with famous faces staring pseudo honesty at the back of his head, and two hours of fanciful poses that have nothing to do with the film and no normal person would ever squeeze into, all guaranteed to raise eyebrows and sell tickets.  
  
The smell of make-up, dabbed covertly to cover the dark circles from no rest and a grueling schedule, sticks like rubber cement to the inside of Elijah’s nose, adding yet another layer to the half-truths he’s been pedaling all day.  
  
 _Yes, I’m very happy to be here. What an interesting question! I’d be happy to share. Not bored at all. No place I’d rather be._  
  
Sean’s cell was unavailable at the moment, so he shoved his hands deep into pockets mired with regret and worry, and smiled once more for the camera.  
  
7:17 PM  
  
Just enough time for a quick shower and change, then back downstairs for more schmoozing, cocktail in one hand, witty sound bite on his lips. A soul numbing exercise, to be sure. Hallway empty, Elijah sagged against the beige wall cut in half by colonial-aping chair rail as he fished out his key, gathering courage to face the empty behind the door.  
  
Card in, door open. He noticed the change in the air instantly.  
  
7:19 PM  
  
“Elijah.”  
  
“Fuck! Damn, Sean! Don’t do that! You scared the shit out of – Wait. What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“Since you didn’t believe my words last night, I thought a simple demonstration would be in order.”  
  
“A demonstration? You flew all the way to Boston for a goddamn demonstration?”  
  
“Yes. A demonstration to repudiate your erroneous assumption.”  
  
“You could have just answered any of the hundred messages I left for you today instead.”  
  
“Trust me, wouldn’t have packed the same punch over the phone. Clothes off, Lij.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Strip. Everything off, socks too.”  
  
“This some kind of kinky power point thing?”  
  
“No, Bill Gates will get no residuals from this, believe me. Get naked.”  
  
“Gee, how can I refuse such a intriguing invitation?"  
  
"Well, apparently you are, because I still don't see any skin."   
  
"As romantic as 'Get naked' sounds, I can't. Supposed to be back downstairs in 15.”  
  
“They can muddle through without you for one night. I can’t.”  
  
“Don't want to face any shit tomorrow morning. So, this little demonstration of yours will just have to be presented when I get back -”  
  
“Not later. _Now_.”  
  
“Sean, I really need -”  
  
“The Slow Fuck - A.”  
  
Smile lopsided, Elijah slipped the jacket off his shoulders.  
  
  
  
7:48 PM  
  
A denim jacket. Rolling Stones t-shirt, blue and white pin striped oxford. Ripped jeans, neatly pressed, but slightly wrinkled, khakis. A pile of loose change. A lighter. Left, right sneaker, then loafers turned sideways. One, two, three socks. Cactus and lizard boxers over plain cotton maroon ones. A snaking line of paper – blue sheet in the lead – disappears under the upside-down bedspread that tangles with the wadded blanket twisting in the sheet still clinging by destroyed hospital corners to the bed embracing the naked lovers.   
  
A small intake of breathe, a deep moan of pleasure. A whispered name, the declaration of love. A faint shift of mattress, the languid rhythm of in and out. Mouths together, tongues suck, teeth scrap, blood and spit drip slowly down. The suction of sweaty groins pressed tight, the slurp of strokes along moistened skin.  
  
Elijah stretched out on his side, supported by strength from behind, and relinquished control, content to float on the sensations of being totally and thoroughly slow fucked by Sean.  
  
  
9:13 PM  
  
“This feel like shame to you, Lij?”  
  
“No, more like you’ve got your tongue up my – HOLY SHIT!”  
  
“What about when I suck your balls. Anything? Regret, perhaps?”  
  
“No, as a matter of fact – oh, Christ, Sean…Ssssssseannnnnnn!”  
  
“What about when I taste myself leaking out of your hole after my cock has stretched it wide? Any sense of embarrassment when I lick you clean?”  
  
“Oh, fuck, no! FUCK! FUCK! Sean…NO!”  
  
“Good. Because now you’re going to fuck me into oblivion. But, first I think a little respite would be…”  
  
“Right through the mattress and into the fucking…Sean? Hey, where’d you…Sean? You’re taking a nap? _Now_?”  
  
  
  
12:03 AM  
  
“Why is Lizzie marrying such a dickhead?”  
  
“Jonathan is not a dickhead. _He_ has been very apologetic throughout this whole ugly episode.”  
  
Side by side, legs tangled and fingers entwined, they both stared at the vaulted ceiling, as they lay propped up by a mess of the best hotel pillows ever, covered to the hip under a 300 thread count pristine white sheet, listening to mellow jazz swing from artfully hidden Bose speakers. The subdued glow offered up by the bedside lamps haloed about the room while the sweat, spit, semen and lube they were too spent to wash off dried on their sated bodies.  
  
“Well then, why is Lizzie marrying into a family of dickheads? Thought we raised her to have higher standards than that.”  
  
“Do I really need to answer that question?”  
  
“No, guess not.” Elijah sighed, swallowing the last of their mini-bar raid. “Still have the scars where love came up and bit me on the ass.”  
  
“And a fantastic ass it is, teeth marks and all.” A tantalizing squeeze to the subject matter for emphasis.  
  
“But, it’s an ultimatum that never should have been presented. Who in the hell do they think they are?”  
  
“The groom’s parents.” Tugging gently on tussled hair, Sean nudged Elijah to look at him directly. “This is for Lizzie, remember? She wants her father to walk her down the aisle.”  
  
“Thought I was her father, too.”  
  
“Oh, Lij, you are!” Sean pulled him in close, tucking Elijah’s head under his chin. “In all the ways that really count.”  
  
“Except one. Sperm.”  
  
“Sucks, I know.”  
  
“What I don’t understand is how this is going to change anything.” Placing ear next to Sean’s heartbeat, Elijah snuggled in even deeper. “I’ll still be there. Everyone will know I’m sitting back there in the corner with all the other – what did they call us?”  
  
“Deviant, disgusting homo queers.”  
  
“Which is fucking redundant. Sheesh, these folks can’t even insult with any intelligence. Certainly hope that brand of stupidity is not genetic for Lizzie’s sake.”  
  
“And the grandkids.”  
  
“Just so pissed off about it all, Sean. What they’re saying is…well, like the past seven years mean shit.”  
  
“They mean shit to me. Those seven years with you mean everything, Lij.” His voice softened as he buried his face in dark, unruly hair. “I can’t stand it when we fight. After you hung up on me, couldn’t stop thinking, worrying, agonizing. Booked the first flight available to Boston. Went crazy just waiting to leave for the airport.”  
  
“Uh oh. What did you alphabetize this time?”  
  
“Well…I didn’t…not really, not much…”  
  
“ _Sean_.”  
  
A reluctant sigh. “The laundry room, cleaning supplies and, in the garage -”  
  
“The _garage_?”  
  
“- motor oil in descending viscosities.”   
  
“Shit. How am I gonna find anything now?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Like you even reach under the kitchen sink for Windex.”  
  
Up on one elbow, Elijah felt compelled to defend his honor. “Hey, I’ll have you know, I clean up after my -”  
  
“Oh, god, Lij!” Needing more contact, Sean yanked until Elijah was spread eagle on top, their foreheads bumping, lips just a kiss away.“I’ll never hide the fact that it’s you – the sexiest man ever created – that I want to fuck incessantly. I’m overwhelmed with pride and a sense of unnatural luck that you chose _me_ to spend your life with. I _love_ you, Elijah, with all that I am and more. I'll stand, as will Lizzie, by whatever decision you make. Let's just not argue any more. _Please!_ "  
  
"Sean...I want-"  
  
 _I want to shove their goddamn bigoted demands right down their fucking throats!  Not really about me, though. Or Sean.  Should be Lizzie’s day. And Jonathan’s. Would have fucking killed anyone who had tried to screw up mine. Of course, I’m not the one screwing things up here, they are, but my daughter’s wedding is not really the place to make a stand against intolerance, though doing it in white tie and tails would be very classy and…shit. Sean in a tux._    
  
Elijah’s kiss was hard, fast, and sloppy wet, taking Sean by surprise. It ended with a smack and a teasing tongue along a bottom lip.  
  
“And what was that for besides a not so subtle hint for more hot and dirty make-up sex?”  
  
“Only for the ceremony, right? After that, it’s wide open?”  
  
An impish grin was sneaking up fast. From experience, Sean knew exactly what that meant. “Lij, what are you planning to - ?”  
  
“OK, I’ll be the silent partner at the church, spend an hour in the closet, but -" He turned his attention to Sean’s ear, tracing wet fire around the shell. "- _after_ at the reception…"  
  
" _Elijah..._ "  
  
“It’ll be just a bit of light entertainment, nothing fancy.” Hips began to move with the sensuous beat of the music. “Right there...in front of grandma...and Uncle Herman. They'll...love it, I'm sure. Our own...little deviant... queer floor show.”  
  
“Well, that should have them choking on wedding caaa – shit!!”  
  
Just a small shimmy down, a bit of help with the aim, and Elijah slid home to The Slow Fuck – Position C.  
  
“Oh! Oh, oh...oh, Lij!”  
  
  
  
5:45 AM  
  
Wake up call ignored. Sheets ripped off corners, twisted and wrinkled. The scent of sex lounged unrepentant in the temperature controlled air. The only sounds – soft snoring of peaceful sleep. Boston sped up, racing towards another day completely unnoticed.  
  
Over in the cozy sitting area, one of the wing-back leather chairs now sported a deep set of teeth marks. Under the credenza, several oranges and an apple cowered, bounced free from the complementary fruit basket on the table by sustained and forceful banging. In the kitchenette, a surprise for the maid splattered down the cabinets by the sink. Every towel in the enormous bathroom jumbled across the Mediterranean tile floor, the result of several long, steamy baths.   
  
The telephone rang again, four short bursts, shouting to be remembered. It roused the sleepers, but it still went unanswered, media pandering and the business be damned.  
  
“Love you.”  
  
Lips and mouths, hearts and souls, Sean and Elijah greeted the morning.  
  
Seven years, five months, 17 days and counting.  
  
  
  



End file.
